


blue.

by halowrites



Category: Popslash
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-07
Updated: 2011-03-07
Packaged: 2017-10-16 04:13:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/168296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halowrites/pseuds/halowrites





	blue.

Six bucks for a beer, and this is just fucking ridiculous. He might be a popstar, but he’s not stupid. Beer is beer, and there’s always another club, somewhere else. Maybe with less sweaty people intent on pushing and shoving him into other sweaty people. Fucking Chasez and his, "we _have_ to go, man. It’s supposed to be totally wild."

Chris frowns. _Wild_ as in wild animals, perhaps. This place is less like a club than it is a zoo.

"Sorry," he mutters to a sad-looking blond guy, who looks even more morose when most of his drink is spilled unceremoniously down the front of his shirt by Chris’ elbow. "It’s just. Pushing, y’know?" He jerks his chin toward whoever’s behind him doing the shoving. Blond guy nods and looks at his now mostly-empty glass, and Chris almost feels guilty enough to buy him another.

Almost, but not quite. If the beer’s six bucks, he can only imagine how much a glass of some weird blue concoction with random fruit hanging from the rim will cost. He shrugs and smiles apologetically to the guy, and makes a hasty retreat.

Well, as hasty as possible, given the human sea surrounding him from all sides. It’s two steps forward and three steps back again, a little like special choreography from hell-- without the added distraction of spirit fingers.

"You have such a fabulous ass." A voice like rich, black velvet in his ear, and Chris scowls. Fucking Bass. He was hoping that Lance would have already commandeered the VIP area, and had mentally imagined the three of them holding court on an insanely comfortable couch, with all kinds of beautiful creatures draped over them. But no-- Lance is standing in front of him, grinning, and holding out a-- Chris groans-- blue drink. "For you," Lance explains, and Chris takes it from him, trying to look grateful.

There’s a straw in it-- a _straw_ , of all the stupid, irritating things -- which he plucks out with a thumb and forefinger, handing it back to Lance with a grimace. Lance rolls his eyes and tosses the straw over his shoulder without looking. "Philistine," he hisses.

"Real men don’t use straws," Chris says primly, and risks a cautious sip. His tongue doesn’t catch fire or shrivel up and drop off, which he supposes is a good sign.

"You like?" Lance points to the glass, and Chris nods.

"It tastes. Hmmm. It’s very, uh. Blue."

Lance’s grin widens, and oh, yeah-- Chris can tell he’s had a few blue drinks himself. His eyes are slow-blinking and hooded, deep-green and sly. He’s swaying gently where he stands, looking for all the world like some big cat in heat. VIP area, Chris thinks again as he swallows another blue mouthful, and mentally pushes all the beautiful creatures off the couch, leaving just himself sitting there, Lance draped artfully across his lap. Naked. Chris takes another cautious drink, and okay, for something so strangely-coloured, it’s actually not all that bad.

"JC’s found a pole," Lance yells happily, and Chris frowns. A pole? What?

"A pole? What?" He frowns at his drink, because there appears to be an echo. Not that he knows what an echo _looks_ like, but he takes another mouthful while he has the chance. Mmmm...blue. It’s fast becoming his favourite colour. Next to green, like eyes. Like Lance’s eyes. "To your eyes," he adds, raising the glass to his mouth once more.

"Over here," Lance says, grabbing his arm, and Chris steadies himself, making sure his drink is safe. His precious, lovely blue drink that he doesn’t want to spill. He drains the last of it, because he figures there’s no safer place for it, than inside him. "C’mon," Lance murmurs, looking back over his shoulder, and Chris hands his empty glass to sad blond guy with a grateful smile, then follows, wondering if Lance’s ass will taste half as good as it looks as it slinks along in front of him.

*

JC’s found a pole, alright. He’s twined himself round it, and is doing what can only be described as--

"He’s humping it," Chris points out, watching JC’s hips swivel and slide and tilt and--"The _pole_ , Lance. JC is humping that pole." Chris stares some more, and oh god, he’s never wanted to be a pole before so much in all his life. It’s entirely possible he might need another blue drink.

"Here." Lance slips one into his hand, and Chris always knew he was magic. Lance, that is. Chris doesn’t think he himself is magic, because if he was, he’d be turning himself into a pole right about now. He flicks the straw at Lance, then takes a large swallow of the drink, and oh yeah, it’s still all blue as it slides down his throat-- and so, so very good.

"I think," he says, chewing thoughtfully on a piece of mango, "that what he’s doing right there-- that thrusty thing-- is quite possibly illegal in several states."

"Seven, actually," Lance says, "and only if you’re caught."

"Wow." Chris has another mouthful-- okay, five-- and adjusts himself discreetly. He always knew JC was bendy, but this? This is something else. There’s quite a crowd gathered watching as JC shimmies and shakes and grinds-- and oh god, the grinding. Chris isn’t prepared for the grinding at all. "Gruh," he manages, swallowing down almost half the glass in one large gulp, and oh yeah, blue is fast becoming his new favourite colour.

"Why a pole?" he asks, except it comes out sounding more like, ‘whipple?’ Thankfully, through some great cosmic blue drink connection, Lance seems to understand.

"Apparently, he’s always harboured secret pole-dancing fantasies." Lance is looking at the rapidly-vanishing glass of pretty, pretty blue in Chris’ hand. "Drink it slowly," he says sternly, sipping at his own, and Chris nods solemnly, because, yes sir, Lance sir. Slow and steady wins the race. As does sneaky and fast, and Chris takes three quick mouthfuls while Lance blinks. Ha! Chris beams, because he is the _man_. The blue man. Blue blue blue.

Blue like JC’s eyes when he looks over from where he’s hanging onto the pole, his body almost bent in half backwards. He smiles at Chris, and his face is totally upside down. Chris smiles back, because JC looks like a dork. A hot dork humping a pole, but a dork nonetheless. "Blue," he says happily, raising his glass in a toast. JC’s upside-down teeth gleam back at him, and he wraps a leather-clad leg round the pole and twirls gracefully, to a round of appreciative applause from the crowd.

"We’ll never get him off it now," Lance sighs, and Chris nods. Not that he understands at all why on earth Lance would want to break up the beautiful thing that is JC and his pole, but nodding seems to be all his neck can cope with at the moment.

Stupid neck. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Chris tips some more blue drink down it, just in case that’s what’s needed to get it working properly again. He’s not sure whether it helps or not, but it tastes good, so it’s not like he really cares one way or the other. "I like JC on the pole," he says, watching the man in question do a little shimmy-twist-thrust movement that leaves some guy to Chris’ left moaning not-so-quietly. "But maybe--" --he glances sideways at the moaner, then back at Lance --"--we should take it somewhere more private, yeah?" Visions of the lovely VIP couch dance in his head again, and this time, it’s JC draped across his lap, Lance bringing the two of them more magic blue drinks. Chris is pretty sure JC would like them almost as much as he does.

"Leave it to me," Lance murmurs low in his ear, and a delightful little shiver races through Chris from head to toe. With a voice like that, Lance really should be doing porn. Ah, porn. He smiles fondly, and has another drink. He likes porn. He _really_ likes Lance and JC. And, hey-- there they are, over by the pole. Chris really likes the pole, too. He’s hit with an immense wave of compassion for everything and everybody. He is full of love, and love is blue. Chris waggles his almost-empty glass in their direction, and JC grins back at him, big and bright. Lance appears to be whispering something to JC, their heads close together, and Chris wonders what it is they’re talking about as he drains the last few drops of alcohol.

He doesn’t have to wonder for too long though, because as he turns back from putting his glass carefully down on a ledge, JC’s coming toward him, a huge grin nearly splitting his face in two. "Hey," he says as he gets closer, "hey, man. Lance, he, uh--" --JC waves his hand around vaguely in the air-- "--he’s gone to. Yes. About the VIP. He said that you, y’know. The pole." He nods, beaming, and Chris finds himself nodding, too, because even though he doesn’t have the first clue what JC’s talking about, he can do the nodding bit. That’s well within his capabilities.

"Okay," he says slowly, nodding some more, and JC claps his hands, literally bouncing in place. Chris can’t help but start to worry a little about what the hell he’s just agreed to. VIP-- right, he understood that much, and Lance, and-- the pole? Um. He thinks he might just need another drink while he figures this all out. Where the hell is the bar, anyway? He looks around and ah-- over _there_ , just across the dance-floor. Chris decides he’ll just go get himself another lovely blue drink, and then--

"It’s all set." Lance, seemingly materialising from nowhere at his elbow, steering him back and away from the bar. Hey--wait-- _away_ from the bar? Chris starts to protest, because, hey. _Hey_ now.

"I want--"

"VIP," Lance says, pointing to the stairs just ahead, where Chris can see JC bounding up them, two at a time. "It’s all arranged."

"But--"

"As many blue drinks as your heart desires." Lance smiles, and okay, how the hell did he know _that_?

"Because I’m magic," whispers Lance, and _right_ , Chris thinks, _I always suspected._

  
*

If Chris had a soundtrack playing in his head, right now it’d be blasting out a triumphant fanfare-kinda thing, because here, right in front of him, is his beloved VIP couch. To his delight, it looks just as insanely comfortable as he’s been imagining.

Better still, there’s a beautiful creature already draped across it--in the form of JC. Even better _yet_ , he’s just been joined by Lance, and now there’s _two_ beautiful creatures lounging there, and Chris thinks he’s probably the happiest guy in the place-- maybe even in the world. The only thing that could make him happier would be a fresh blue drink. Oh, and maybe if the two of them would move the hell over and make some room for him, too. Afterall, it’s _his_ goddamn dream-couch, and surely it’s not too much to ask that he at least be allowed to _sit_ on it?

"Shove over, you jerks," he scowls, trying to find some space to settle down, and is instead met by a sharp elbow to his ass. "The hell?"

The owner of the elbow--JC as it turns out-- scowls right back. "No, Chris. No sitting. Lance said--"

"Lance said what?" Chris bats ineffectually at JC’s elbow, his arm, his leg, his foot--at every goddamn body part he keeps flinging around wildly, stopping Chris from sitting down. "Lance?"

"I told C you’d give us a private pole dance," Lance purrs, stretching out alongside JC on the couch-- _my_ couch, Chris thinks, glaring at them both-- "because that’s the only way I could get him away from that pole downstairs." He reaches up to run a hand through JC’s hair, his fingers twisting in tangled curls, pulling JC’s head down, then licking across his lips. JC makes a soft noise that’s almost a sigh, and his mouth falls open to show a flash of pink, wet tongue.

Chris blinks, because holy fucking _shit_ , that’s hot. "Um," he says, and that’s about all he can manage, because his mouth is suddenly very, very dry.

"C’mon Chris," JC murmurs, inbetween biting at Lance’s lips, "dance for us, yeah?"

"I, um." Chris bites his own lip, wanting to know how the hell he’s going to _walk_ , let alone dance, because-- fucking hell. He glances around the room. "There’s, uh. No poles here." And really, as far as excuses go, he figures it’s a pretty valid one.

JC sits up abruptly, and Chris sees Lance grab wildly on to the back of the couch to keep from falling off. "Oh," JC says, "oh, Chris, you’re right. But hey. Hey." He stands up, walking across to where Chris is. "Me," he murmurs, dipping his head, his mouth ghosting across Chris’, "I’ll be your pole." And then there he is, warm and solid, and pressed so, so close.

"My pole," Chris echoes, wondering if he looks and sounds as stunned as he feels. "And I-- dance?"

JC smiles. "Yeah. Just kinda, y’know-- shimmy. Like this." And, oh god, he does something with his hips that Chris feels ripple through him from head to toe. "And maybe a little something like this--" --JC’s thigh slides between his own, leather-clad and hothothot--"--and then, there’s always _this_ , too." Long fingers curl around his hips, and JC’s grinding slowly, rhythmically, against his leg, and Chris swears he can feel his brain starting to melt and trickle out his ears.

"I don’t think," he gasps softly, "I can do that." _Not without coming in my pants, anyway_ , he thinks, and really, if JC keeps doing what he’s doing, with the grinding and the shimmying-- not to mention the sight of him, head tipped back, eyes closed, well, coming in the pants is still a distinct possibility. "I really can’t," he says, and JC’s eyes flicker, then open and focus on him.

"S’okay," he says with a grin, leaning in and licking at the corners of Chris’ mouth, "we can go sit back down if you want."

Chris nods, because, uh huh-- he wants. Oh yeah, he wants that a lot. JC humping his leg is pretty damn good-- okay, it’s fucking fantastic-- but if he keeps going the way he is, Chris doubts he’ll be able to stand upright for much longer. So, the couch then -- _his_ couch-- where maybe JC will grind into him in whole new ways-- that sounds just about _perfect._

JC takes his hand and Chris lets himself be pulled down beside him on to the couch. "Hello there," Lance murmurs, from where he’s sprawled on the other side of JC. He’s got something in his hand, and Chris peers at it-- ah-- another blue drink. He has no idea where Lance is getting them from, but hey, he’s not complaining.

"Is that for me?" Chris reaches for it, and Lance slaps his hand away.

"Patience, Chris. Just wait." He takes a sip, and Chris scowls.

"But _Lance_ \--"

"Shh." Lance raises a finger to his lips. "I said, wait." He dips his head, and presses a kiss to JC’s shoulder. "Take your shirt off, honey."

"Okay," JC says happily, and pulls his tshirt over his head and off, in one single, fluid movement. Chris can feel the heat shimmering from him, bare skin pressing against his, warm and lightly sheened with sweat.

"Pretty," Lance says softly, dipping his fingers into the glass he’s holding, and as Chris watches, he reaches over and traces a glistening trail of blue around one of JC’s nipples, then the other. "Drink up," he says, looking over at Chris with a wicked grin.

"Fuck," Chris breathes, because-- _fuck_. And then, _okay_ , because there’s no way he needs to be asked twice. He lowers his head and laps along the blue trail, sucking and biting gently at JC’s nipple, the cool slide of the liquor mixing with the warm salt tang of JC’s skin across his tongue. JC’s hands brush against his face, and then there’s fingers wrapped in his hair, holding him, guiding him, and JC’s hissing softly, arching upward a little every time Chris licks over and around the sensitive skin.

"Here." Lance’s voice, and more alcohol is trickled slowly over and across JC’s chest. Chris chases the drops with his tongue, lapping at the blue pooled in JC’s bellybutton, nipping at the soft golden skin of his stomach. Fingers tighten in his hair, and _oh yeah, you like that_ , Chris thinks, and bites a little harder. He’s rewarded with a low groan, and he smiles against damp heat. Gold, pink and blue, a rainbow of colours across his tongue, and Chris licks lower still, feels the shift of muscle under skin as JC curls into the sensation. Then there are fingers in Chris’ way-- Lance’s, unbuttoning JC’s pants, dipping inside, wrapping around JC’s dick and guiding it toward Chris’ mouth.

It’d totally be bad manners to refuse, really-- not that the thought of saying no even enters his head at all-- and Chris hums happily as he swallows JC down, saltbitter and musky, JC moaning softly when he scrapes his teeth gently over tight, hot flesh. Lance’s fingers again, stroking his jaw, and Chris frowns a little-- the hell?-- but then one slips into his mouth, and he tastes-- blue. More blue drink, all over Lance’s fingers, and the taste of it mixed with the taste of JC is wild-- like some exotic cocktail. Chris giggles a little at the thought of that, because really, it is a _cock_ tail, in the truest sense of the word.

"What’s so funny?" Lance says, not much louder than a soft purr, and when Chris glances up, all he can see is flashes of wet, red tongues, sliding slickly against each other. JC’s head is back, eyes closed, mouth opening under Lance’s, and Chris can hear the little noises he’s making low in his throat. _Sex noises_ , he thinks, and the thought sends a twist of heat through his belly.

"Nothin’," he mumbles around his mouthful of hot, hard JC, and feels Lance’s fingers slipping along the line of his jaw once more, tapping softly.

"Don’t talk with your mouth full," Lance murmurs, sounding amused, and Chris manages to snake one hand up to flip him off, because hey, _c’mon_ now. He’s doing his best, afterall, and JC’s certainly not complaining. Far from it in fact-- his fingers are twisted tightly in Chris’ hair, his hips rocking upward to meet every downward slide of Chris’ mouth. And the noises he’s making-- can Lance not _hear_ those? Pure fucking porn, and Chris kinda wishes someone was sucking _his_ dick right about now. In fact-- he slips his other hand down between his legs and rubs his aching hard-on, and can’t help but groan a little, because, damn. _Damn_.

"Yeah," he hears JC say, "oh yeah, Chris. Jerk yourself off, man."

 _Right_ , he thinks, _because it’s not like I’m busy here or anything._ But hey, he’s a resourceful guy, and the thought of jacking himself while JC’s dick is in his mouth is pretty fucking hot. Not to mention the fact that Lance will be watching, and _oh yeah_ , Chris thinks, he can probably manage JC’s request without too much trouble. Pole dancing might be a little out of his league, but this? _This_ he can do.

He shifts a little, so he’s on his side, curls his hands around JC’s hips and slides him closer. JC’s pliant, like a ragdoll drunk with sleepy pleasure, happy to let Chris arrange his limbs any which way he pleases. "Such a boyslut," he grins, and JC beams back at him, the smile slipping into a soft moan when Chris licks a wet stripe along the length of his dick. Lance slides off the couch, and Chris wonders briefly what the hell he’s doing, until he sees him slip to his knees in front of them both, reaching up to undo Chris’ pants, tugging them down a little.

"There y’go," Lance says, and Chris glances into green eyes gone dark with anticipation, then wraps fingers around his dick and shivers at the sudden curl of pleasure that spirals through him.

"What about you?"

Lance leans forward to press his lips against Chris’ ear, hot breath, and a low, throaty purr. "I think I’d like to watch y’all," he says, and Chris feels his belly tighten, his head spin. _Fucking hell._

"Okay," he manages, and curls his other hand around the base of JC’s cock, feeling the glide of flesh against the back of his throat, matching the rhythm of his mouth to the speed he’s stroking himself.

"Fuck yeah," he hears Lance whisper, feels hot breath ghosting across his hand, his belly, then Lance’s tongue flicking between his fingers, slicking over the head of his dick. _Jesus_. He draws in a breath and closes his eyes, concentrates on the slide of JC’s cock in and out of his mouth, the feel of hot, velvety skin against his tongue, the sound of JC’s breath coming in tiny little hitches and moans as his hips quirk upward, little by little.

The couch moves -- Lance is shifting-- then soft, wet sounds, and Chris knows he and JC are kissing again, tongues and teeth and slick, red lips. He’d look-- hell, he _wants_ to look, wants to _see_ \-- but the heat coiling fierce and hot in his belly with every stroke of his hand is enough to let him know that he won’t last long if he does open his eyes. Instead, Chris lets the cool blackness behind his closed eyes hold him tight, feels it wrap round him, slip along his skin as he takes JC deeper still, humming softly, feeling JC arch into him in response.

"He’s close, Chris. So very close." Lance, not so much spoken as rumbled, and Chris can feel it thrumming deep in his chest, rippling through him. "You’re close too, aren’t you? I can see it on your face." Lance’s fingers wrap hot and sure over his, covering the hand on his dick, controlling it, jerking him faster. "Does that feel good?" he purrs, leaning close, so close, slipping the words right into Chris’ ear, "you like that, yeah?"

And oh _yeah_ , Chris likes-- it’s taking him all his time not to come there and then, snapping his hips forward into Lance’s hand, still curled tight around his, setting the pace. Chris draws in a breath on the next upward glide, then slides his mouth down, down, _down_ \-- until he feels JC thick against the back of his throat, cutting off his air for the barest of moments.

"Fuck," JC gasps when he does it again, then once more, " _fuck_ , Chris--" -- and he’s straining upward, shuddering, coming with a long, low groan as Chris swallows him down thickly. And Lance -- oh, god, _Lance-_ \- his fingers curled hot and slick over Chris’, a voice like raw silk hissing the filthiest things in his ear. Chris feels the tiny, silvery sting of teeth closing around the lobe, a wet swirl of tongue following, and -- shit. _Shit_.

"Lance," he groans, the taste of JC thick in his mouth as he moves back and away a little, "Lance, if you keep doing that--"

The rest of what he’s going to say is lost in the slide of Lance’s mouth over his, Lance muttering, "want to taste you both," as he licks inside, and Chris thinks that sounds just about fucking perfect, the best idea he’s ever heard in his life. He tastes like JC, and Lance tastes of blue, and Chris’ head spins with it all. Lance’s kisses, his tongue licking over the roof of Chris’ mouth, Lance’s hand working his dick, and someone’s fingers are stroking warm over his belly, up under his shirt, pinching and twisting his nipples.

"JC," he breathes, because yeah, that’s JC, and then there’s Lance, and then there’s nothing else but a slow, steady honeycurl of pleasure pulsing through him, and Chris can do nothing but gasp into Lance’s mouth, wet heat spreading over his fingers and belly.

When Chris opens his eyes, Lance is grinning lazily at him, licking his fingers. "Hey," he says, tongue flicking over his lips, "you still thirsty?" He reaches behind him, then lifts up a glass. Another blue drink. Chris can’t help but smile, because goddamn-- magic or not, the boy is _good._

"Where the fuck are you gettin’ those from, Bass?"

Lance gazes back at him, eyes dark and hooded. "Maybe I’ll tell you if you blow me in the limo on the way home. Deal?"

"Deal." Chris sits up, slides closer to JC, curls into soft, warm skin. He tips his head back and JC licks across his mouth, then slips his tongue inside, soft and wet. By the time the kiss ends, Chris’ toes are curling, his skin hot and tight and shimmering. He blinks, grinning at Lance. "And hey-- can we take this couch with us, too?"


End file.
